On a crisp Autumn Saturday, Thelma hums

And serves me a plate of eggs, bacon, and pancakes.

Years of curiosity had finally got the better of me

And I  was in Tidioute for the Fishing Tournament.

Down the street, children with their daddies are baiting hooks

While mothers stand ready with Band-Aids and Neosporin.

Further down the street, in a field,

Marching bands are gearing up for the big parade.

The Sun is bright for the last full weekend of September;

Perhaps his last hurrah before we settle into cold.

An old woman, her face wrinkled like the pages of a well-used Book,

Sits blind, listening to the children’s voices

Rising melodically above the beat of that distant Drummer.

She tells me her name is Eunice when I stop at her porch,

And that this is her eighty-first Fishing Tournament Weekend.

A distant buzzing drowns out her voice.

The Shriners warm up their engines.

The shrill brassy note of the fire whistle rises above it all,

A clear trumpet taking center stage.

The Tournament is over; the Parade is just begun.

Again, not really how it all went down. Just… musing.